


We Are The Champions

by Tentaculiferous



Series: Prowl x Jazz 10th Anniversary Challenge Fics [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Sports, Competition, Competition-Set Fic, Fighter AU, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Other, ProwlxJazz10thAnniversary, Rival Relationship, Rival Sex, Team Dynamics, Teamwork, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaculiferous/pseuds/Tentaculiferous
Summary: Jazz has been a reigning champion in the middleweight solo fighting world. Bored of a competition he no longer finds challenging, he seeks a new thrill in trying to take the top spot in the team middleweight circuit. But building a team that can beat the clever leader Prowl and his mechs is easier said than done, and once Jazz has gone up against him, he sets his optics on a new prize.





	1. Prompt: Champion, Your Chances are Slim, Fight!

**Author's Note:**

> This is less of a "slaves fighting to the death" type Fighter AU, and more of a competitive wrestling/boxing/MMA type thing. It was fun to write! 
> 
> " _Getting strong now_  
>  Won't be long now" — Bill Conti, "Gonna Fly Now" (Rocky Theme)

Prowl and Jazz were each champions in their respective categories. They were in the same weight class, but Prowl participated exclusively in the team category, where he tended to hang back and let his teammates throw the majority of blows, and receive them. It was his clever direction and insight into battle maneuvers that brought him and his to victory.

Jazz, on the other hand, was the top of the standard-weight class when it came to solo matches. His easy demeanor and small size, for a standard, had led many to underestimate him initially. But like Prowl, it was his processor and not the power behind his fists that let him take the Championship belt for three years in a row. There was seemingly no lag between his processor giving commands and his frame responding to them--they were as one, his dexterous limbs dodging him away from killing blows and his razor-sharp mind sending those agile fingers out to kill or maim with a deceptively delicate looking strike. 

And he had been paying attention to the other black and white champion. While many in the solo class looked down on team champions, Jazz did not. Others saw Prowl using the strength of others, and thought him weaker for it. Not Jazz, who knew that a weapon was a weapon, whether it was your own hand you were moving or someone else's. Coordinating a team, knowing perfectly the minds of those you controlled, their strengths, weakness, and breaking points to an accuracy that would allow for flawless execution, was no easy feat. 

But Jazz did not think it beyond him. That's why he was flipping through the dossiers of dozens of top class middle weight fighters. Most of them he had fought against at one point. He didn't just need mechs who could fight, he needed ones who had the traits needed to work cooperatively toward a goal, to fall in line and take orders. 

Mirage—he almost threw that one out. There were few mechs that seemed more asocial. Mirage was the definition of a lone wolf. But he had a calmness to him that Jazz had witnessed in few others. He could keep his helm, and, Jazz thought, he might be coldly goal-oriented enough to set aside his agency and individuality, if it meant winning. 

Bumblebee—If there was a better mech for cooperative efforts, Jazz couldn't think of one. The little yellow bot was the friendliest and most easy-going mech Jazz had encountered in the ring. He took nothing personally and seemed to lack the pride and ego issues that so many fighters had. Jazz had once literally wiped the floor of the arena with the little yellow mech's bleeding face (it made for great TV) and then had drinks after the match with him. 

Hound—Jazz didn't know him as well, but he seemed almost as easygoing as Bumblebee, and despite every opponent already knowing his specialty was holograms, he still managed to use them to pull one over on most of them. (They also made for great TV). 

Blurr—a faster mech you couldn't find. Even Jazz's stellar reflexes had trouble keeping up with him. You had to think five steps ahead to get one over on him. 

Jazz nodded, his decision made. With these four mechs he would become the only middle-weight mech to achieve championship in both the solo and team categories.

* * *

The crowds screamed their approval as the doorwinged black and white group champion strode into the arena. There was no expression on Prowl's face, and he seemed to pay no attention to the boisterous audience spelling his name out with signs or wearing masks of his likeness. His elegant doorwings flickered once, however, and Jazz could see sharp optics sizing up each member of Team Jazz. 

"Aaaaand now, fresh from the solo circuit, the challengers, Team Jaaaaaaaazz!" the announcer howled. 

Jazz and his team approached the center of the arena, the more charismatic members smiling and waving, playing to the crowds. Mirage was noticeably stoic in comparison. They were a newcomer to the team circuit, but some of their fans had crossed over to see them today. Working the fans was an important part of the business, in Jazz's opinion, but despite the many blown kisses and waves, his visor never once took its focus off Prowl. 

Soon they were merely feet apart. The referee held up a microphone, offering them the chance to say a few words. Nothing like working the crowds up with a few promises of impending bloodshed and insults to the other team's progenitors. 

Prowl was first to speak. 

"Your chances of beating me are slim. I calculate your team's chance at victory to be a mere 3%. Perhaps it would be best if you forfeited now to spare your team great suffering." the stiff black and white mech said.

Gosh, that was a nice face though. A strong nose, high cheekbones, and positively piercing blue optics. Jazz felt an electric thrill run through him that wasn't all pre-battle adrenaline. Still, the mech failed badly at trash talk. Maybe once Jazz beat him into the floor, he'd take the mech under his wing and give him a few pointers. Jazz told him such.

"An offer ya can't refuse, mech." he said, winking. 

"And yet I will decline." Prowl said. His voice was as stilted as ever (Jazz had watched every fight and interview the mech had done) but Jazz thought he detected an undercurrent of amusement. Intriguing. This was the first he was hearing of a sense of humor in this mech. Maybe he had hidden depths--still energon rivers run deep, and all that.

"Aww, don't worry, you can still change your mind after the match." 

With that last promise echoing through the air, the bell dinged and the mechs were off. 

Team Prowl moved into a solid defensive block, but Jazz was fine with that. He'd noted that most of the times Team Prowl was up against a newcomer, they started out defensively. Jazz had no problem with taking the offense—he'd never been one to wait around and let others come to him. 

With a muttered code word into his headset, he set his team into motion, splitting it in half and having the mechs engage in a leapfrogging maneuver—two going on the offensive, with the other two watching their backs and engaging the opposing members as they ran to their teammates rescue. 

Jazz smirked, watching Prowl begin muttering corrections and orders to his own team. He planned on taking a far more active role in the battle than Prowl usually did. Being involved in the hot and heavy action handicapped a leader by decreasing their awareness of their team's condition, and limited the leader's ability to give feedback. But Jazz was fully confident in his ability to lazily aid his team while keeping an eye on the whole show--and if he appeared distracted, a typical solo fighter unable to adapt to team play, then so much the better. 

The fighting had been going on for some time, battle shifting, tactics adjusting, mechs dented and bleeding, but none out of the game yet, when the opening Jazz was watching for occurred. Getaway slammed an elbow into Bumblebee's faceplate, sending splintered denta flying. The little mech's face twisted in agony as he cried out. Jazz put on a concerned, angry look, and sprinted over. Behind him, he could hear Blurr zipping around Prowl, trying to get a good opening. 

This was going to put him close. Not close enough to easily slide in for the maneuver--that would tip Prowl off--but just close enough for someone with his amazing acrobatic skills to pull it off. He ran at the fighting couple, and oh, Primus, the timing had to be just perfect, but Jazz knew he could do it, he was lightning in mech form, a fighting demigod--and leapt high at just the right moment to do a running jump, slamming both pedes into Getaway's smug faceplates. From there he bounced high and hit one of the ring poles, heading almost halfway across the arena. 

He hit the ground rolling, a few feet from Prowl. He had wanted to catch the team champion off guard, but Prowl must have noted his movements even while fighting off Blurr. Jazz sprang up, darting behind the mech, even as Prowl sent Blurr skidding across the ground with a powerful kick. Doorwings were already whirling as Prowl spun around to intercept Jazz. But while the mech's processor might have been up to speed, his body was no match for Jazz's reflexes, as Jazz brought gleaming sharp claws down. Instead of catching Prowl on the neck, the claws raked across the doorwing that was facing him. 

Sparks flew from the delicate hinges, now torn asunder. With a groaning noise that could barely be heard over the crowds' roar, the doorwing swung down to hang loosely, the full weight of it on the lower hinges. The pressure must have been agonizing. 

If Prowl was in pain he didn't show it. And even Jazz's quicksilver, unorthodox mind couldn't have predicted what the mech was about to do. His expression as blank as ever, the black and white mech seized his own injured doorwing and _yanked_. Metal screamed as he ripped it lose. Energon splattered as a line was torn, and before Jazz could duck away the purple liquid had splashed all across his visor. 

That was the last thing Jazz saw before the weight slammed into him, blacking everything out. 

~  
The next thing Jazz onlined his visor to was the harsh white glare of the ceiling panels overhead. Let's see: berth underneath him, IV lines running into his arms, a sulky looking Mirage with an ice pack on his head glaring at him....yep, this was the Arena medbay. He shook his helm to clear it of the fogginess. Mirage threw down the datapad he'd been reading, and strode over to the medberth. 

"What happened?" Jazz mumbled, through a mouth that felt like it was full of rocks. "Did we win?" 

"What happened? He beat you unconscious with his own amputated doorwing. Do you think we won after that?" Mirage asked.

Jazz winced. "A mech can hope…"

"You promised us victory, Jazz. I don't know what you'd call that, but it wasn't a victory." 

"Talk about kickin' a mech while he's down!" Jazz said, sinking down into the pillows and covering his face dramatically.

Mirage's lip curled. "Why did I ever think you were taking this seriously?" he said, his tone icy. With that, he stalked off disdainfully.

Jazz rolled his optic band. It was a TEAM effort after all, not that Mirage seemed to have gotten the memo. Jazz couldn't single-handedly bring them a win, though he acknowledged that, as team leader, he had the most responsibility. But Jazz was no quitter. Losing the team championship this year was a real blow--it would be another year before they could compete against Prowl again. But that was another year they had to train, another year he had to study Prowl's tactics. They would be better next year. Mirage would cool off, rejoin him after awhile. And if he didn't, Jazz would just have to find another fifth member.

He was already considering ways to bring Mirage back around, when a knock sounded at the medbay door. Jazz raised in optic ridge in curiosity. If it was one of his team members, they would have just walked in. Same with his agent.

"Come on in." Jazz called. 

The mech that walked in wasn't the last mech he'd expect (that would be Nova Prime, dead some millions of years, or perhaps Calculon, the soap star. He wouldn't have minded Calculon.) but it certainly wasn't anyone he was expecting. Standing in the medbay's door, was Prowl. His usually piercing blue optics were somewhat dull, and Jazz figured he was as doped up on painkillers as Jazz was. The mech's pretty doorwing had been reattached. Jazz could see the ugly weld lines. 

"My my, ain't you a sight for sore eyes." Jazz greeted him.

"Hello, Jazz." 

"Don't be a stranger, come on over." Jazz said. 

Prowl closed the door and headed over to Jazz's berth, awkwardly sitting in the chair next to the berth. It wasn't built for winged mechs.

"I was in the medbay as well, and thought I would visit you." 

"Decided to take me up on those trash talking lessons?" Jazz teased.  
Prowl smiled faintly. "If you agree to what I am about to propose, then you will have ample time to critique my 'trash talking' as you call it." 

"Propose? You might be good lookin', but I'm not ready to settle down yet." Jazz said, but he was intrigued. What could this mech, the champion of the middleweight team circuit, that had just schooled his amateur in comparison aft, want with him?

"This is more of a business proposition." Prowl said.

Jazz wasn't surprised. Not that he would have minded a more _personal_ proposition. Nothing was hotter than a winner, and Prowl was a winner—clever, graceful, and as he'd shown tonight, ruthlessly brutal when it was necessary. Jazz's motor practically purred at the thought.

"You may not have won tonight, but I was impressed by your performance." Prowl continued, oblivious to Jazz's lewd thoughts. "I would like to offer you a spot on my team." 

Jazz was stunned. Of all the things he'd expected, _that_ wasn't it. He frowned, feeling insulted both at the offer and that Prowl genuinely thought he might take it. Was his potential so low that Prowl didn't think he was a real threat? Jazz was going to push on until _he_ beat Prowl. He wanted to be a champion team leader, not just a member of a winning squad, someone who had won by virtue of following a more clever mech's orders. 

"Thanks mech." Jazz said, slowly. "But I'd like to offer you the same invitation—you can join _my_ team if you'd like a spot." then he grinned the dazzling grin that had graced the cover of so many sports magazines.

Prowl drew back, his wings hiking up in affront. "Excuse me?" he said.

"You heard me. You can join my team, if you're wanting to shake things up." he winked. 

"I must decline that offer. And if it is made in jest--well." he paused. "I have led my team to victory for 9 years straight--and I do not foresee that streak changing soon. If you would like to be a part of a winning team, then you may join me. I have to make my decision for who will take Skids's spot by next week, so you have until then." Prowl rose from his chair. 

"Thanks for the thought, Prowler." Jazz said.

"Have a good night, Jazz." Prowl said, heading for the door.

"You too, babe." Jazz said. 

What an absolute dish of a mech. Shame he wasn't an adoring groupie. Jazz sighed, sinking back into his pillows.


	2. Grace/Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very very short. Most will be longer.

The lights were out in Prowl's "war room" as he called it. It was the largest room in his swank penthouse apartment, and where he spent most of his time when not recharging or training with his team. It had a table that could seat the team and their coaches and personnel, and it was at this table that Prowl sat, his fingers steepled in front of him as he watched the bigger-than-life size image of Jazz dancing across the enormous vid-screen. The sound was muted, leaving the room in absolute silence—the better for his icy optics to track every twist and turn of Jazz's body as he slammed Gutchruncher to the ground with an elegant kick to the chinplate.

Beautiful. And deadly. His moves were so fluid and effortless looking, as artful and polished as a ballet performance. Prowl knew that nothing was that effortless—Jazz had to have drilled himself mercilessly to imbue his body with that sort of grace and sleek power. That alone spoke volumes. Like most of the champion fighters, his willpower and determination must be extreme. However, unlike many, his mind must have been honed to a razor edge. Prowl sat for hours, watching his new rival using clever and complex maneuvers, psychological manipulation and feats of timing that few could pull off. 

It was the _mind_ that was controlling those gleaming white thighs that cracked Gutcruncher's helm casing like a walnut that interested him. Prowl watched the deceptive strength the graceful black hands held, the quickness in the back sharply arched to avoid a punishing blow, thrusting the big bumper outward, and knew that it was that quicksilver processor that could bring about his downfall, not any amount of well-trained reflexes or strength. 

Prowl loved a challenge. The hours ticked by as Prowl sat alone, bathed in the blue light of the screen, his focus completely and total on Jazz. He studied the mech like a scientist would a lab specimen, or a turbofox eyeing a particularly juicy robochicken in the henhouse. He watched him until he'd seen every tricky maneuver, every cheeky grin. 

But he was only seeing what was shown to the audience, what played out in the arena. And a mech was so much more than just their stage persona. He was missing vital details of Jazz's personality, habits, and weaknesses. 

It was time to go observe Jazz in the wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowlers gonna prowl. Or, the Stalking of Jazz Commences.


End file.
